The Golden Song
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey veil that turned the cobblestones of the old city into mirrors of bruised sky. In the narrow office of the Magistrate’s Watch, where the air smelled of damp wool and ancient paper, Julian Vane sat with his hands resting on the scarred oak desk, staring at the object that had dismantled his life. It was a brooch, not of gold, but of a...
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